


Fetch

by somethingclever



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9166417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingclever/pseuds/somethingclever
Summary: When a fugitive escapes due to a computer glitch and dives into Daniel Boone National Forest, it's up to Art, Raylan, and Tim to bring him back.  Should be no big deal... after all, Tim loves this sh*t.But when do things ever really go according to Art's plans? (Never, Raylan says.)





	1. Art

 

“God _damn_ it!” Art yelled, throwing his hat down in frustration and kicking it, for good measure, “ _Mother-fucker!_ ”

 

“Now, Art,” Raylan drawled, “Think about your blood pressure…”

 

“My blood pressure?” Art’s eyes bugged out and Raylan’s grin got bigger, “Our fugitive got tipped off by a secretary we were comin’, after they got released by a goddamn computer screwup in county, and he is now about… what’d you say, Tim?”

 

“Forty minutes,” Tim said without turning his head, butt firmly planted on the hood of the fugitive’s car, “Give or take, based on the engine’s heat.” He was watching the woods, seemingly disinterested in his bosses' predicament. 

 

“Forty minutes ahead of us,” Art said, “In…” he glared at the woods, dense, verdant, and lush, smelling of goodness and earth and goddamn _disappointment,_ “In the Daniel Boone national forest. Could have gone any which way.  And you want me to think about my blood pressure, Raylan?”  some of the anger bled out of him, leaving annoyance and the logistical hell and despair that was a missing fugitive – one they had literally had in their offices less than two days ago – skipping out on them. He glared at the woods and huffed.  This was a nightmare.

 

“Tim,” he barked, and Tim turned his face towards him, looking over his shoulder, even as Art turned back towards Raylan, waving one hand vaguely towards the woods, bending down to get back into his car – he had phonecalls to make, logistics to plan, “ _Fetch_.”

 

Tim got down off the hood and headed back towards his suburban, and Art laughed weakly at his own joke, figuring the deputy was going to go have a lay down while they waited on backup. “We’ll need dogs,” he told Raylan, “And a helicopter…” he was a few minutes into talking out the plan to his senior deputy when he realized that, as endearing as Tim’s narcolepsy could be, he really needed him to be learnin’ this shit, which meant he should be in the car. He rolled down the window, “Tim, get up here.”

 

No answer.

 

Art pulled himself out of the car, Raylan on his ass like he should be, and they walked back to the suburban.  It was empty. _Shit._

 

“…son of a bitch is _fetching?_ ” Raylan asked, his voice somehow hopeful, amused, and disgusted, as he reached into the backseat, holding up a small pile of clothing and Tim’s dress shoes – alongside a now-empty canvas rucksack Tim kept in the backseat perpetually.

 

 _Son of a bitch._ “Save me from former military little bastards,” Art said, forlorn, “And get on the horn, we just lost a deputy, too.”  This was gonna be fun to explain at the biannual conference… speaking of, “Tell me,” he said into his hands, “I told him I wanted our guy fetched alive?”

 

Raylan’s eyes got big, his grin even bigger as he pushed his hat back to rub at his forehead, “I don’t reckon you did, Art!”

 

 _Dammit._ Art felt the overwhelming urge to bang his head against the hood of the car – he indulged himself by resting his forehead on the edge of the roof, pulling in a deep breath through his nose.  Well, there went most of his logistical plans…

 

"Should we go in after him?" He didn't have backup. Reardon's asshole was a mean, big fella. Tim could dangle from his ear like a second ear-ring. 

  
"Right, let's go get lost, break your other knee. No." Raylan came around to the other side of the vehicle, leaning against it on his left, staring out into the forest like it had answers. 

 

"I'm callin' in backup. Get the staties out here." Humiliating, yes, but probably necessary.

  
"And tell them... you lost your fugitive and your deputy, Art?" Raylan's grin was audible, even if he couldn’t see it, what with his eyes closed and all.   
"Screw you, Raylan, you're enjoying this too damn much!" Although Art could see the humor in it...  teach _him_ to off-handedly toss an order at Tim, wouldn’t it?  And… it wasn’t as if Tim didn’t know how to handle the woods, or trailing a person, or even a mean motherfucker, when it came right down to it… it could be worse.  It could be Raylan out there.

  
"Shoe's on t'other foot, Art, you've been enjoying my suffering for weeks now. I ain't actually worried about that kid- why're you?"

 

Because he was a weaselly little bastard and kept the office from being boring.  Because he was one of the best natural hunters Art had ever met.  Because he listened to Art when he asked him to do something), and lastly, because he just... "I like him.  Like I liked you." 

 

Raylan's head tilted to one side like an old mule with a bug in its ear, "Past tense, there, Art?" and damn him if he didn't sound like Art had slapped him one.   _Damn_  Arlo. 

 

"No, not past tense, but I reckon you've grown up enough since Glynco," Art told him, "You're more my mid-teens boy, out causin' mischief, painting graffiti on walls and shit.  Tim's still in middle school. I can still  _teach_  him."  Still save him from a world of hurt. Hopefully. If he hadn't just sent him after something too big for him to fetch... "You're made and molded. Tim’s still got give in him. And," he added, “He’s cuter.”

 

Raylan smiled at him, getting what Art was trying to say - thank God for Raylan's intuitive understanding, Art thought, not for the first time.  "So," Raylan said, "We don't want the staties, and we shouldn't go in, there ain't no cell reception no-where..." 

 

"We give him two hours," Art decided, eying the sun, "If he isn't back by then, I'm swallowing my pride." 

 

Raylan nodded, and lounged back against the hood of the car, "I'm takin' a nap, then."

 

"What, don't wanna keep talkin' about your daddy issues?" Art grinned, "Maybe chat about justified killings, or..." 

 

Raylan started snoring, and Art laughed, settling back himself to keep an eye out for his baby deputy to come back.


	2. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loves this shit. 
> 
> This shit makes him hard.

Tim, meanwhile, was having more fun than he'd had in a coon's age.  This shit was  _fun._  It got him hard.  Not literally, thank god, because running with a hardon hurt, but whatever, it was the idea of it.  Art's offhanded command had set his blood racing -  _fetch_.  Yep. He'd fetch.  Trail wasn't too hard to follow, once you got the pattern of it - Tim would bet this guy was a hunter, himself, maybe even military, but he wasn't an elite.  Tim hit his stride, rifle slung over his back, boots laced on firmly, and damn dressy civilian clothes relegated to a tidy pile in the back of his car.   _Hell yes, fetch_. 

 

This was what he was made for, he reflected, as he got his vantage point behind his target.

 

He didn't jump right away, he was twice Tim's size and even if Raylan and Art came in after him, they would be a good long ways behind.  Tim toyed with shooting him, but Art probably didn't want him dead. Probably.  Maybe he should've gotten his orders clarified... well, when in doubt, eliminate the target... he took his finger off the trigger with a mental sigh, Art's voice drawling, " _Perp, son, not a target."_  

 

Okay, then, alive… he grinned. He could do winged. Winged was good. He corrected his aim and shot to the left of the man's foot. "Baty, US Marshals," he called down to the terrified man who had whipped a handgun out of his ass crack and was spinning around like a top, staring into the woods to see who'd shot at him, "Put the gun  _down_ , hands on your head, and you won't get hurt."

 

"You can't even hit me! You missed, pig!" he hollered, shooting towards Tim's voice.  Hopefully no squirrels got hurt. Tim rolled his eyes and shot through his elbow. 

 

He didn’t _miss._

That took the fight out of Baty, and he threw his gun down into the creekbed, sobbing bitterly about sons of bitches, government, and mother-fucking pig-cops.  Tim shimmied down, cuffed him - and took a few minutes to treat his arm with a pressure bandage and sticks to keep the joint from getting destroyed, trading insult for insult without paying half attention.

 

It was almost too easy.

Of course, as soon as he thought that, the bastard started going into shock, and Tim regretted shooting him a little. He saw how  _this_  one was gonna end... and yep. The guy passed out as Tim grabbed his arm to keep him from falling. "God _damn_  it," Tim huffed to himself.  Gutterson, remember this, next time... he got him up on his shoulders and his feet back under him - and fuck, he was getting soft, or old, or both, because he remembered this being easier with his buddies.  "I think maybe it's cause I liked them more," he told the unconscious man, "Probably. Cause I hate your miserable ass. You pissed off my boss.  Guess what that makes you to me? Shit. That's what you are.  An annoying shit that won’t come out. But hey," he continued as he trudged along, "You're also job security, I guess, keepin' people like me employed." he fell quiet for a bit - only about another fifteen minutes to go, by his reckonings, "So I suppose I should likely thank you, you asshole." 

He came out of the canebrake a few hundred meters ahead of the cars, and headed back down the gravel road to them. Raylan was asleep, sprawled on the hood of the car, long legs bent at the knee and heels resting on the bumper.  How he liked that much sun, lying on hot metal, Tim had no idea - but then, he'd liked  _Miami_ , that weird asshole - and Art was looking down at Raylan, arms folded and chin down. Tim called, "Hey, boss, got you somethin'!" 

 

"Aww, you shouldn't have," Art said, "Really. It’s not my birthday. Is it yours?”

 

Tim slung the asshole down on top of Raylan, who was awake but staying under his hat as long as he could, relishing the ensuing yelp.

 

Raylan cursed, "Tim, he got  _blood_ on me... did he piss his pants? He pissed his pants. I hate you."  

 

"Well," Tim said, "I am so unappreciated -  doing all the work, and then complaining about the nice packages I bring you!"

 

Art laughed, shaking his head, "Get him loaded, your car - did you read him his rights?"

 

"About that," Tim said as Raylan wrestled the man into the back of Tim's car, muttering about the Lincoln Towncar not needing to smell like piss and blood, and  _Tim_   _made the mess, anyhow!,_ "If I were to, ah, add some words? Does it still count?" 

 

Art and Raylan both froze, eying him. "What words?" 

 

"You have the right to stay the fuck silent?" 

 

"Raylan, give him another go, just in case," Art said, shaking his head, patting Tim on the back, chuckling.  A weight had rolled off him as Tim came out of the woods with that behemoth on his back, smiling like a kid, so damn  _pleased_... Fugitive was alive, mostly uninjured (and Tim had patched up the wound like a pro), and his deputy was just fine.  Yeah. From cluster-fuck to damn-good-day in under three hours - just how Art liked it. "Good work, son." and Tim lit up all over again.  Raylan had the asshole loaded and was leaning over the car door, smiling and lazy again, eying Tim with more fondness than Art had seen him display since his exile to Kentucky, "You take the town car, Tim, and go get cleaned up.  You stink. We'll take him from here - meet back at the office. We'll," he glanced at his watch, "Grab some dinner, after. Celebrate not having to call the staties, or fill out a 'lost the fugitive' report. The lesson, Tim, is if you find them before you file the report…”

 

“Were they ever lost at all?” Raylan grinned, “S’like the tree in the forest question.  Those reports are a bitch. And if you aren't careful..." he dropped his voice, "They'll make you train people at Glynco as punishment."

 

"...they can do that?" Tim's voice cracked, and Raylan lit up like Art had given him a new handgun for Christmas.

 

"Oh, son. I will tell you, over dinner t’night, what you have signed yourself up for." he was positively beaming, the asshole. Art glared at him.  Raylan kept grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed! Comments keep me writing.


	3. Cooperative Fetching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Art discovers that his boy really will only listen to him.
> 
> This gives him something of a Marshal stiffy.

...Tim,  _fetch!_  Got to be their thing, a little joke between Art and Tim, with Raylan amused every time he saw it.  Rachel didn't really approve – she thought it was a little demeaning, but it didn’t bother Tim so Art didn’t care too overly much - until somebody  _else_  tried to tell him to do it.

Boy oh _boy_ did Art care when the sanctimonious blow-hard FBI agent, who’d been running over the entire office roughshod, turned to his junior deputy and pointed down the storm drain, “You. Yeah, you,” he said when Tim pointed at himself with two fingers, questioning, “Fetch.”

 

He’d get angry if he weren’t laughing, because Tim raised an eyebrow, leaned back, shifting his sunflower seeds from his left cheek to his right, considered the order and the grate, spat, and replied... "Nope, I don't reckon that I will."

 

Art had, earlier in the case, sent him fetching (after the FBI had failed) and Tim had gone with a wide grin, wicked laugh at himself and his skills.  Agent Tucker had tried to do the same, but without the same authority, and he looked like he knew it, and wished he hadn’t. But, he’d issued an order, everyone had heard it, so he repeated himself, louder, and from a closer range.  Tim melodramatically pulled himself back, as if he was in danger of getting spat on.

 

Had to be satisfying, in its own way…

 

Raylan murmured in Art’s ear, "Damn, this is fun..."  

"You  _get down there!"_

Both Tim's eyebrows went up, and he shifted his weight forward a little, "I recognize you feel the need to wave your dick," he said, clearly, and Art squeaked with glee - his little boy was all grown up! - "But y'ain't my boss, and you can't so much as raise your voice to me in any sorta meaningful way. So no. Again. I don't think I'm goin' down there for you.  Especially not," and Tim's weight shifted onto the balls of his feet, "When you don't ask me  _nice._ " 

 

"You gettin' a marshal stiffy, boss?" Raylan muttered.

 

"Shhh, I'm enjoyin' this," Art said, "An' your voice is interruptin' my train of thought.  _Hell yes I am, aren't you?_ "

 

"If it wouldn't make our compatriots in the Bureau so uncomfortable, my hand'd be down my pants," Raylan smirked, and Art sniggered happily.

 

The Agent in Charge (Art was working on forgetting their name) was turning redder and redder, and Tim was as immovable as a rock... but damn, they should get their perp outta there. There was probably snakes and shit.  

 

"Send in one of yours," Art said, reluctantly, "And I'll send in one of mine, as backup."  He wouldn’t send Tim, to prove a point, but... Tim was looking straight at him, with that direct, soul-shredding, you’re-in-my-sights gaze.  Raylan would barely fit, Rachel wasn't with them, and Nelson hated small spaces. 

 

"Tim," Art said, defeated, "You're the best bet for gettin' in there." Screw pride and proving a point, they wanted this person alive, and they all wanted to get home.  The rain was puttering down, and if it got much worse, the drain would fill, drowning the fugitive.

 

"Boss," Tim said, spitting the remainder of his sunflower seeds, "Consider this fucker  _fetched._ " and down he went.  

 

And if that didn't warm the cold cockles of his heart, ain't nothin' gonna, Art reckoned.  The poor FBI agent followed, and when they came back - all three soaked to the skin, shivering, and the fugitive half-drowned - Art grinned because  _his_  boy was the one holding the perp, while the poor agent looked ready to lose their lunch. Hells yes, he loved his crew... "Anything else the Marshals can help you with?" he asked, "Perhaps finding y'all's sense of camaraderie and cooperation? Good work, Tim, let 'em have 'er. Raylan, get him home. Nelson and I got this." 

 

The FBI agent looked a little green, and Tim took a step back, which led to Art and Raylan being out of the way of the spray of vomit.  "Yeeeeah. Definitely gettin' outta here. You gonna do that?" Raylan motioned to the puddle and eyed Tim. 

 

"If I do," Tim smirked, "I will lean over and get it allll down in your shirt, as payback for that one time." 

 

"What one time? Aw hell,  _that time?"_  Art shook his head and chuckled as his deputies headed into the car and he settled in to annoy the feds for just a  _little_  longer - because nobody told one of his marshals what to do without a clear go-ahead from him!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment, even if it's just that you read and enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated, and keeps me motivated! Thank you for reading.


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